


The Golden Boy

by a_dead_poet



Series: Achilles Come Down [1]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), The Song of Achilles from Achilles’s POV, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dead_poet/pseuds/a_dead_poet
Summary: My father was a king, but I was the best. I do not say that to sound self-absorbed. It is simply the truth. A king for a father, a goddess for a mother, a prophecy guiding my steps: I was told by others I would be the best, but I knew already that I was.I wonder how it would have been different, if I was not. Would he still have looked at me that way? I would like to say yes. But if I were not the best, I would not be me.Again, I do not mean to sound conceited. It is the truth.I do not like to lie.(The Song of Achilles from Achilles’s POV)
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Series: Achilles Come Down [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179401
Comments: 106
Kudos: 86





	1. The Laurel Crown

My father was a king, but I was the best. I do not say that to sound self-absorbed. It is simply the truth. A king for a father, a goddess for a mother, a prophecy guiding my steps: I was told by others I would be the best, but I knew already that I was. I wonder how it would have been different, if I was not. Would he still have looked at me that way? I would like to say yes. But if I were not the best, I would not be me.

Again, I do not mean to sound conceited. It is the truth. 

I do not like to lie.

I was five, I believe. Perhaps six. I knew the other boys were nervous, but I was not. My father loved me, he said, and he had faith.

“Do me proud,” he’d said, hands on my shoulders, leaned down to meet my eyes.

In that short moment, I had—foolishly—quite wished my mother was there to see me.

I do not remember sights from the races as much as I do the feeling, the thrill. Dirt beating under my feet, the wind from my own speed tugging at my hair, the fluid and free speed from my body that surprised even myself.

I remember turning towards the king after the race, my face flushed with pride, ready to accept the garland of what was mine. I remember the king ripping it from the small hands of a boy seated next to him. I wish I had remembered more of this boy, many years later, but my only thought was that he looked quite sweet and skittish, sunlight pooling in his eyes, like a deer.

The king laid the garland across my head gently, with much less force than he turned towards his own deer-boy.  
I remember my father crushing me against him in an embrace, I remember pulling away and throwing the garland with joy, I remember laughing, laughing, laughing.

I did not look back at the deer-boy.

I wonder, if our souls were reversed, if he’d have looked back at me.

From then on, my role in the palace had changed.

“Achilles, what do you think of this?” my father asked. He was pointing at a map I did not understand.

“It is good, father,” I responded.

He smiled at his court, pleased with response for a reason I could not discern. I was invited to more court meetings. My father liked the look of me at his side, I think. The king, and the son of a king. I was seven.

As I grew older, I began to speak my mind.

“Father, I do not wish to attend your councils,” I said one morning. I had seen my mother that morning. She had stroked my face. _Come to me,_ she had said. _You could be happy with me._

 _Mother, I have a duty to my people._ I knew I was to be king, and she knew it too. I do not think she enjoyed my answer, but that did not make me wish to take it back.

“What would you like to do?” my father asked.

“Practice my music. Train. Do as I wish.” Some might have described it as a brat’s answer. I suppose it was, but my father did not seem to think so.

“Very well,” he said, and that was the end of that.

My father did not pressure me to do much, but I worked hard in my studies. I was proud, and I doubt I would have listened had he been persistent. There were many boys in the palace, and so my childhood was not lonely.

There was one grievance my father held with me, and that was this: he wished for me to choose a companion. I had friends, yes—the other boys seemed drawn to me—but he wanted me to take a therapon, a brother, a half of my own person.

I did not think I needed help nor companionship, I was already the best, and I quite preferred my own company. I liked the quiet, the still. It reminded me of the seas when my mother was happy.

Time and time again, he asked, but I refused, and I am glad I did. If I had chosen one of the reckless boys with whom I ate—well, it would not have happened the way it did.

My father asked things of me, and I refused, and it was not rude or dishonorable at all.

From a very young age, I was a king.


	2. The Boys

My father was a good and generous man. He took in exiles from all around Greece. He didn’t raise him—he barely raised me—but he was the king and the boys were in his palace.

I do not think I understood, then. Looking back, the boys wanted to become my therapon, to advance themselves. I used to think I was truly that golden, an attraction, that when I opened my mouth, they were swinging from my words like vines, never daring to fall.

There was one boy that did not swing on my words, but he came several years later.

I came to know the boys’ names, their favorite meals, their preferred dice games, but I always kept myself a few paces ahead. I was young, and I was ignorant, and I knew I was a hero but went about it rather stupidly.

To say I was included in the games of the boys would be an understatement. I was the star of their games. I did not like playing with that set of dice, so we did not. I preferred racing to contests of strength, so we raced. (When we occasionally held contests of strength, I won). It was a king’s childhood, and I was a king.

There were girls, too.

Serving girls and maids, with their swishing skirts and ducked heads, had never intrigued me, the way they did the other boys. I did not wish to lure one to my room, nor did I find myself daydreaming about the swell of their hips and chests. I did not pause to think of what their favorite dice games were; they were not part of my circle, and I did not see out of my circle.

I do remember one interaction the most. I was not even a part of it, I admit. I was in the chamber where I took my lyre lessons, my fingers stumbling over the notes, my voice still shaky and unsure.

I heard my father and mother speaking outside of the door.

This never happened. My mother stayed in the sea, and my father stayed in his palace, and nothing linked them except for my presence. I knew my mother loathed my father, loathed what he’d taken from her, and even at such a young age, I knew that they would never reconcile.

“I want to see him,” my mother was saying.

“This is not how. He will come to you.” My father was defiant in his words, but there was a quiver in his tone.

“He does not belong here. He belongs with me. He is my child, and I will not have him amongst these ruffian boys.”

“He is as much mine as he is yours,” my father said. He was a king, and he was not used to things being taken from him. “This is not your place.”

“You think your crown gives you rule over the gods.” It was not a statement. It was an accusation.

My father’s voice was strained. “He is half a god himself.”

My mother said, “I do not want him amongst these common boys. They will dull him.”

“He does not mix with the boys very much,” my father responded, and it was easy because it was the truth.

“There will be a boy,” my mother said, and then she left.

I did not wish to disobey my mother, but I did wish to find the boy she meant. I took one of them—thick black hair, dull gray eyes—to my room that night.

“Do you wish to juggle with me?” I had asked.

“I guess,” he had responded.

“You do not want to,” I observed.

The boy—I do not remember his name—shrugged. “Am I to be chosen?”

I had selected this boy as the first in my experiment because he had always laughed the loudest at my jests, always cheered the loudest during the races. It was a stab of sadness to see he did not have my private interests at heart, too.

I took him back to the door. “No.”

I did not choose to be, but I was surrounded by boys. I did not mind it so. I enjoyed being the center of the gaze, I thought it was where I should be. My jokes and tricks made others laugh and smile, so surely I should be in the center of their circle. I suppose I did not think so clearly, back then. I only knew that the boys enjoyed my presence, and I did not mind theirs. It was not a subject of much consideration for me.

Until him.


	3. The Sea

My mother was the sea, quite literally: a sea-nymph. But my mother was similar to the sea in spirit, too. She was large, she brought all the attention to her. It was unknown how deep she would cut, so she was feared. I knew all the dangers of her, yet I still longed to rush into her embrace, splash around under her protection.

I do believe my mother loved me. She cared for me, deeply, I knew that. The only person who cared any more… she did not like him. But he had not arrived yet, this night. I had snuck out of my room at dawn, as I did whenever I saw her. As I walked towards the beach, swirls of salt in the air seemed to tug at my heels, laughing as if we were brothers, or childhood playmates.

I never tired of this: walking to the beach at dawn, alone with my thoughts. I was a rather pleasant person to be alone with, I remember thinking. I had no despairs in life and so nothing ever tarnished my mind. The gentle sound of the wind lapping at my ears, the stark, jagged outline of my mother waiting for me on the beach… it always felt like coming home. My mother was a goddess, and she understood what my father and the other boys could not. I always thought she’d be the only one who would ever understand me. 

This morning was lightly windy, and my hair tossed around my ears in good fun. My mother waited as always, on the beach.

“Achilles,” she greeted me as I strolled up to hear and sat upon the sand.

“Mother. Are you well?”

“I am well,” she always responded, but it was more of a nicety than anything. She was never well, but that did not concern her, she worried only of me.

“What are you doing now?” she asked (she always asked this). I told her much of the same: of how my hours of music filled up my days, of the small games with other boys, of my training. Was I even faster with a spear now? Yes. Had I injured myself? No.

“Do you want to join me?” she asked (she always asked this). I gave the same answer as always: “Mother, I love you, but I have a duty to my father and people.” This did not please her, but she never pressured more.

“How is your father?” she asked (she never asked this). I was so stunned that it took me a moment to respond.

“He is… well,” I said slowly. “The people love him. He loves the people. It is the right life for him.” 

She made a noise of acknowledgement that sounded like a baby seal dying. Violently.

“Why do you ask?” I asked her, cautiously. I will never, ever forget her response.

“I should wonder how young the youngest king was.”

At the time, I did not understand. “Mother, you know Father is not the youngest king!”

She nodded. “I love you,” she said (she always said this), and then “Be careful. You do not belong there.” (She always said this, as well). I waved at her as she slipped back into the sea, falling like a boulder but leaving no trace, and then I began the trek back to my room.

I loved the sea. It was a place of comfort to me. I loved it in light ways, loved to splash with other boys and show off how fast I could swim, and run on the sand until my toes were so caked with it my feet felt heavy. I loved the sea in dark ways, too. In a way, it was half of me: the land my father’s half, the sea my mother’s half, me: a stranded beach. I listened to the waves late at night and early in the morning and imagined how it would feel to slip between them: to death, or to my mother.

A boy drowned one year. He was there, he was laughing, and then he was not. I mourned, but I felt more curiosity than sadness. How would it feel, to be taken so soon? Was there a special place for those who died so young? I had the imminent feeling that I could not die, but yet death fascinated me.

_“Do you ever think about what it would be like to die?” I ask my counselor, Phoinix, one day after lyre lessons._

_“Gods, no,” he responds, setting down his lyre. “Achilles, has something happened?”_

_“The drowned boy,” I offer. There is something more, and it kills me that I cannot place what it is. I do not wish to ever lie, but this feels not a truth._

_“He is in a better place now,” Phoinix assures me, and we don’t speak of it again._

“What would you do if I died?” I asked my mother.

“If you died,” she snarled, “it would be from your own stupidity. You know better.” It was the harshest answer I had ever received from her yet, and that morning, she did not ask me to join her.

That night, I laid in bed and thought of what my mother might’ve meant. I was mortal, I knew. But she had seemed so sure I would not die. What would it take for me to die young? I thought. Honor, perhaps. To fill my role as the best. Strangely enough, it felt as if my death was already decided, inked in time by the gods. I did not like thinking like that, so I shook the feeling away.

I met my mother again the next morning. “Do you know how I will die?” I demanded as soon as she could hear me.

“You did not ask me if I am well.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you well?”

She did not cross her arms, but she seemed to mirror me all the same. “Yes.”

I meant to ask my question again, but the fire in me, the urgency of death, seemed to die as I saw her standing there, her violently gray dress tearing around her white legs in the surf.

For the first time, I felt lonely.

I ran forwards and melted into her embrace. She stumbled with surprise, but hugged me back all the same, gripping me to her, soaking my hair and freezing my chest. “He has ruined you,” she said. “You are just a boy.”

“Mama,” I said.

“Do you want to join me?” she asked.

This was the first of three times that I nearly went with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys prefer shorter chapters and more frequent updates or longer chapters and less frequent updates? Let me know :)
> 
> Sorry for the multiples updates this morning, there are technical difficulties with the formatting.


	4. The Golden Boy

I was ten when everything changed. My father had some errand to run; I would not learn what it was until much later. I did not much care why he was gone.

The night before, I had been up late waiting for my mother. She had called me to her, I knew how to listen to the sea breezes. But she did not show. I had the feeling she was there, but wanted me to wait on the cold beach anyways, simply out of spite.

I understand now what her motives were, and why she did not show, but I did not then. All I knew was this: I was ten, I was awaiting a new boy, and I was a king.

I was laying on my bench when I heard him come in, my ankles tossed over each other, plucking at my lyre. I had the beginnings of a song, a song about the sea, locked behind the tip of my tongue, and I was trying to find the chord that held the key. I was the best, the boy could wait a moment.

He did not like to be kept waiting. This was the first thing I learned about him. He took another step forward, dragging his feet on the floor to create noise. I had lost the chord due to his presence, and I felt a stab of dislike before I even turned to look at him. Surely, I thought, he would be nothing special.

I roll my head over to the side to regard him.

Bronze skin so dusty with stress and contempt he nearly looked gray. Thick, dark brown hair, the color of rich wood, hanging in curls over his eyes. He is not built big, but there’s a strong energy about him anyways: something commanding and golden. As scared as he looks, something about him glows: if he smiled, he’d smile sunbeams. There’s a piece of hair sticking up behind his ear. I feel a strange urge to go over to him and try to smooth it down.

The golden boy lifts his head towards me, and a jolt goes through him: why, I do not know. His hands clench tighter at his sides. I still cannot meet his eyes through his curtain of hair, and it frustrates me. I decide he is not worth my time. I do not care for any of the other boys much, he is no different.

I yawn. “What’s your name?”

He does not respond. It only makes me dislike him more. His knees are scabby, I notice. Perhaps he did not hear me. I raise my voice, then say again: “What’s your name?”

“Patroclus,” he hisses through a clenched jaw. He does not like his name, I note. I do not know why, it is a fine name. _Honor of the father._ I suppose he has been exiled, but it really does not matter, he is his own person and his name is his own.

He makes me uncomfortable, like I’m being watched from behind. His features are not familiar but his presence is. He used to be a prince, I know, but I never remember the other princes. I remember my mother’s words: _There will be a boy._ I feel a prickle like salt water on the back of my neck, and I have a feeling this is the boy she meant.

I turn on my side to face him, my lyre hanging from a finger, forgotten. A lock of my hair falls onto my face, tickling my nose, I seal the side of my lips and huff it away. The boy watches. “My name is Achilles,” I tell him. He jerks his chin at me. It strikes me as a vulnerable yet angry gesture. I have a feeling that if I eased his lips open, I’d find fangs.

He feels so familiar, and looks like he’s slipping into a different person… I blink, trying to clear my sight of any premonitions, but he’s still rooted to the ground, looking at me like he knows me from somewhere and is wishing he didn’t.

 _Something is going to happen with this boy,_ I think.

The golden boy looks at me still.

I yawn again. “Welcome to Phthia.”

  
  


I did not see the golden boy any more than I saw the other boys, but he tugged at the back of my mind. Rumors flew through the boys and landed on me during meals: he killed a boy, he won’t speak to anyone, he stole my dice, he talks in his sleep. I knew he was here because he killed a boy (my father’s messenger had told me), but I did not know what else was true. I did not condone the spreading of lies, but I am not the master of truth, so I could not reprimand the boys.

“How does he fight?” I hear myself ask of one of the boys one breakfast; I do not know why I care.

“I don’t know, I never really see him,” the boy responds. “He blends in, you know?” Flecks of bread squirt from between his teeth towards my face, and I duck to the side. 

“I see,” I say. “Thank you.”

The boy nods, he is clearly proud of his knowledge (or lack thereof). “He’s a freaky one, that kid.”

I feel a crease wrinkle between my eyebrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

“He talks in his sleep.”

“I do not see how that is ‘freaky’.”

“It is not nonsense,” the boy says. What is his name? I think it begins with a _D._ I do not ever need to call their names to catch their attention, their attention is on me anyways. “He must have nightmares. He keeps whimpering, and crying. One night he screamed—it woke up the whole room.”

“Do you know why?”

“I’m not his father,” the boy responds snarkily, before laughing it off and brushing his hand on my forearm. I do not reciprocate his touch.

“He killed a boy, right? It must scare him. I do not know.”

I steal a glance at the golden boy—Patroclus. He is sitting alone, only a few others at his table, picking apart his bread. His head is ducked low, he seems almost shameful. _There will be a boy._ I knew my father was good to his boys, what could possibly be bothering this one? The nightmares, I suppose. At that moment, I resolved to find what was bothering him; I told myself it was for the sake of the other boys’ sleep.

The next day I sat closer to him, only one table and a thousand oceans between us. The boys at the table did not question my presence, in fact, they savored it like the last fig of the season. We conversed loudly and roughly, as lost boys do, about simple things, and I could not relax until I felt eyes on me and I swiveled to look at him.

I meet his eyes for the first time, and a shock runs through me. Like melting leather in the sun, his eyes: brown and deep like his hair, little pools of auburn moonlight that snagged at a feeling in my chest. I could not look away, but he did, cheeks flushing, tearing open his bread, his shoulders hunched. He did not want anything to do with me.

I slid back into the boys’ conversation then, but I was not finished with him.

Nor was he with me. For two weeks, he looked at me, and I looked back, and it seemed a lightning shock swept from his eyes to mine. They haunted my dreams at night, those eyes: where had I seen them before? I was not used to dreaming of anything other than my own desires or death at night but those eyes: when Hades came to greet me in my dreams, he wore Patroclus’s eyes. I did not know what to make of it.

On the fourth week of Patroclus’s exile, I had my most vivid dream yet: _I was floating through the ocean as I often did, unclothed and holding nothing but a simple sword. The ocean was a deep turquoise and sifted through my fingers. I could not see my mother, but I felt her presence, heard her words:_ There will be a boy. _There was a fiery tunnel on the ocean floor, spurting flames like blood from a torn-open wound. I swam in, and as I did, my flesh fell away, leaving me nothing but bones. Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, chanted a voice, and I turned, and there was my mother, but she was sparring with Hades, and he turned and his eyes—of course—Patroclus._ “Achilles,” _he said plaintively,_ and I woke up in a chilled sweat and did not leave my room until dinner.

I sat at his table at dinner that night, I felt drawn to it. Boys flocked to the table as if it was our normal table, and soon I was surrounded by conversation and food and the raucous laughter that occurs when boys are not afraid. One of the boys was telling a story about something that had happened with a spear during morning drills when Patroclus entered.

The weeks of outdoor training and hearty meals had done him well; I wondered what they fed him in his own kingdom. His skin shone with sun now, faint freckles splattered over his cheeks and snubbed nose. He was fully growing into the name I’d given him in the back of my mind; his cheekbones glinted gold and he had not lost his regal posture.

I made an effort not to watch him as he sat down, I did not want to anger him. I forced myself to talk with the boys, ask about a bird they found dead on the beach, question about the spring races: “It was dead when you found it?” I asked. “I’m sure you will do well,” I assured. I could feel his anger like a tangible thing, scratching behind my ears, nosing at my fingers. He did not like me, and I was not used to being disliked.

The moon shone like him that night, I remember. Full and golden and haunting. I knew I had one chance to change his mind about me, I was sure he was wrong to hate me.

I tuck my hair behind my ears—my father swears it grows faster every day—and swipe a few figs from one of the only bowls left on the table. A simple flick of my wrist knocks the figs into a whirling cycle before me, it was a trick I perfected at a young age. The boys respond warmly, hooting and slapping their hands on their thighs and the tables, clapping for more. I gather a fourth, a fifth, delicately tossing the figs in their circle. It was art to me, and I loved nothing more than the raw joys of one’s own art. I followed the figs with my eyes, keeping away from him, until I could help it no longer and let my gaze flicker to his.

Patroclus’s eyes are blown wide in quiet reverence of the arc of the figs, his lips softly parted, a smile daring to glint in the corners of his mouth. He does not look away in anger, and I say quietly but distinctly, speaking only to him: “Catch.”

A fig falls out of my pattern and smoothly arcs into his cupped palms. The boys cheer, and I turn so they can not see my involuntary smile. I catch the figs one by one, bringing the last one to my mouth. I am vaguely aware of him savoring the one I had thrown him, a private look on his face.

Something sick and overwhelming sweeps over my stomach suddenly, and I stand and stride out of the dining hall, ignoring the farewells of the voices behind me. The golden boy’s voice is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were expecting Achilles to be the golden boy, but it was me, Dio!
> 
> Sorry for the later update—but it’s a long chapter today! Lmk what you think :)


	5. The Lyre

The next day, my father returned. He came back seeming more distressed than he had been before the trip. I asked him of it, and he snapped at me to leave him alone. I learned this: my father valued my presence at the side of his throne when the stakes did not matter. Whatever this was… it was clearly important to him.

I was bright, but I was also young, and the worrying thoughts slipped from my mind soon enough. There were other things to worry about. The boys’ rumors had solidified into truths by the confirmation of my father; Patroclus had killed a boy. The boys wanted to theorize at mealtimes: how he had done it, why he had done it, how much blood there was. I must confess, the whole affair made me sick. I did not want to imagine death for anyone but myself.

Patroclus did not look at me during mealtimes anymore. Then, after a few days, he did not attend them at all. This burned me with anger, I did not know why. My father had given him a bed, fresh food, classes and playmates and everything he could’ve ever wanted, yet he did not seem to want it, even when his own father could not bear to look at him. I did not act, but I seethed in private. This was the first of many events where this boy twisted my emotions out of my own control.

I was waiting to speak to my father about Patroclus’s skipped meals when I realized myself. Oh, how stupid I was—the other boys shunned and mocked him, he was surely haunted by his actions, he was scrawny and gray—he must’ve been ill. How could I have gotten so angry, when he was clearly sick? I had started to turn away from my father’s council room when I heard voices.

“... for how long?” My father’s voice.

“I have not seen Patroclus in drills for a week.” The master.

There was a pause. I could imagine my father absentmindedly thumbing at his chin in contemplation. “I suppose he would have to be punished.”

I do not wait for the master’s response. I set off to find Patroclus. I go to the boys’ drills first, and pull two aside.

“Do you know where Patroclus is?” I ask them.

One of the boys laughs. He has a chipped front tooth and red hair. I dislike him for no clear reason. “What, the murderer? He hasn’t been here.”

“Reckon he’s curled in a corner somewhere, crying,” the other boy jests. “‘S all he does at night, anyways.” They look at me, clearly expecting me to laugh along with them.

“Do you know where Patroclus is?” I repeat. I do not move my features, I believe my face looks set in stone. I am being serious; the other boys realize this.

“I only see him at night,” the red-haired boy offers. “He hides away during the day, I think.”

“I saw him leaving a storage closet one night,” the other boy says.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly, and am off before they can respond.

I find him in the third storeroom I check. He is wedged between jars of olive oil and stacks of sacks of grain, folded in on himself, his knees clutched to his chest. The storeroom is dark, and dusty, but I can recognize his soft breathing, the type that comes after tears.

“I heard you were here,” I say, and his head jerks up. He did not see me before.

I regard him, studying his matted hair and puffed eyes, black licks under them showing his lack of sleep. He does not respond, just stares up at me with a gritted jaw, his eyes flicking like it would burn him up if he met my gaze for longer than a moment.

“I have been looking for you,” I tell him plainly. “You have not been going to morning drills.”

His tear-stained cheeks defiantly flush red. I can feel waves of anger radiating from the tips of his fingers, the hunch of his shoulders. “How do you know?” he shoots at me. “You aren’t there.”

I let his harsh tone bounce off of me. “The master noticed, and spoke to my father.”

“And he sent you,” he spits. He despises me, I can tell, and it’s a strange relief from the other boys. They talk to me because they feel they have to, Patroclus only speaks to me when he has something to say.

I feel my jaw tighten, my composure starting to slip. He is accusing me of something I did not do, and I do not like it. “No, I came on my own. I overheard them speaking. I have come to see if you are ill,” I tell him.

He is surprised. I see it in the soft widening of his eyes and the pause in his clenched neck. He does not respond; he has nothing to say. I have never looked at him this long before. His eyelashes are extraordinarily long, I notice. The light from the doorway behind me glints off his skin, but does not reach his eyes. They are dark, round, and guarded. I’ve never seen anyone that looks quite like him before; he seems plain and smudgy but something in his manner is sharp and unforgiving. His posture and tear stains do not suggest it, but it is obvious: he was a prince.

“My father is considering punishment,” I say. I did not wish him to be whipped, but he had not been following orders. At this age, it was hard for me to decide what to say. I settle on, “You are not ill.”

“No.” His answer is quick and dull. He smears dried tears from below his eyes with the heel of his dirty hand. His hands are not the right size for his body, too small or too large, I cannot judge.

He had killed a boy. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He was in pain, I realized. He was afraid. I would not let him be hurt. “Then that will not serve as your excuse.”

“What?”

Patience came easy for me with him, it flowed like a gentle stream. I did not have to force it out of myself like I did with… well, anyone else. This was the second thing I learned about him, but perhaps it is more that I learned it about myself. “Your excuse for where you have been,” I explain. “So you will not be punished. What will you say?”

“I don’t know.” He does not seem to care.

“You must say something.”

“You are the prince,” he snaps, glaring at me, hands clenched so hard around his knees the brown knuckles have been turned white.

My head tilts in curiosity; his outburst had surprised me. I try but cannot connect my title to his plight. “So?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “So speak to your father, and say I was with you. He will excuse it.” He sounds remarkably confident for someone curled up against our olive oil stores. None of the other boys would’ve dared to speak to me like this, but maybe that was why I did not enjoy their company.

I feel my features crease into a frown. “I do not like to lie.” Lying did not seem to bother other boys my age, but I found my dislike of speaking lies to be the deepest truth about myself.

“Then take me with you to your lessons. So it won’t be a lie.”

I raise my eyebrows not at his boldness, but at his cleverness. I weigh the suggestion: it is not a lie, but is it honorable? He is looking at me, expectant. I decide that the honorable thing to do is to keep him from punishment. “Come,” I command.

“Where?” His eyes narrow. He is cautious, as if I am trying to trick him.

“To my lyre lesson. So, as you say, it will not be a lie,” I say. “After, we will speak with my father.” It is a good plan.

“Now?” He is still wary. I do not know how to make him not so.

“Yes. Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious. What holds him back? He stands up, limbs stretching as he unfolds himself. I think about reaching out a hand to steady him, but decide against it. He has a prince’s gleam in his eyes, even covered in dust and wearing a dirty tunic.

I lead him to my music room. We do not speak; we have nothing to say. I gesture at a stool for him to sit and pull one of my lyres—the golden one I had played when I met him. I hold it out to him. He doesn’t take it.

“I don’t play,” he says quietly.

I cannot even fathom it. “Never?”

I must look disappointed, because he offers an excuse immediately. “My father did not like music.”

His father did not like him, either; I do not know why his father’s approval of things matters to him anymore. “So?” I ask. “Your father is not here.”

He takes the lyre, running his fingers over it, notes whispering as he brushes the strings. I turn away from him, pulling out my favorite lyre, one my father gifted to me. It is gilded with gold, roses carved into the gentle curve of the polished wood. I sit next to him. He clutches his lyre awkwardly, unaware of how to hold it. I position my own correctly on my knees, to try and silently guide him. He does not notice.

I pluck a string, the resulting note golden and warm. I ring out another note deeper, and slowly twist a peg to tune it. It is comfortably quiet in the room, no sound but the lyre’s occasional singing and our breath.

“It’s beautiful,” Patroclus says.

“My father gave it to me,” I respond. “You can hold it, if you like.”

“No.” His voice is sharp. I open my mouth, about to ask him why he is so tense, and if he studied any music, and how it felt to watch someone die—well, not that—but my teacher, a gruff man whom I know only as Teacher, enters and exclaims, “Who is this?”

“This is Patroclus,” I say calmly. My calm against Teacher’s storm. “He does not play, but he will learn.”

Teacher swoops in on Patroclus like a hawk. “Not on that instrument.” He moves to snatch it from Patroclus’s fearful fingers. I bristle with rage. It is mine, not Teacher’s.

I reach out and catch Teacher’s wrist. He is shocked, mouth puckered behind a bushy beard, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, on that instrument if he likes.” I burn my message into his eyes with a stare, and then release his hand and sit back. 

Teacher sits, stiff, awkward, on the stool in front of us. “Begin,” he says to me.

I nod and fall into my lyre, letting the sound take over my mind. I disappear. I’m unaware of Patroclus or Teacher or the stool underneath me. I’m floating in the sickeningly sweet notes, pulling the notes out of the strings. It is my very favorite thing to do.

When I finish, I brush the hair that’s fallen into my eyes away from my face, and turn to Patroclus. “Now you,” I say.

He shakes his head. The tension in his neck and shoulders has released. “You play,” he says.

I do, and I sing this time, letting my head drop back, my smile take over, and my eyes drift shut. My fingers lightly burn as I strum, straying away from the memorized melody and playing my own truths. My voice wobbles over some of the notes, but I am so flushed with the pleasure of making my art that I do not care.

When I finish, I take Patroclus’s lyre and my own and replace them in the chest. “Goodbye,” I say to Teacher, who nods and leaves. I stand by the door, looking back at Patroclus. He is motionless, frozen in his chair, his eyes sparkling.

I wait until he looks up at me, shaken from whatever spell he was under. “We will go see my father now,” I say. It is not a question. He nods, and I turn to lead him out of the room. I do not look back; I know he is following me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! Here it is! Expect another update soon :) and lmk what you think! The beginning of March is busy for me, so the update schedule might be a little irregular.


	6. Therapon

Even then, I knew my father’s audience chamber was impressive: Bronze-studded doors led to one of the largest chambers in the palace. The walls were coated with richly woven and dyed tapestries and shiny and menacing weapons worn useless with age. My father ran cold, and kept the fire roaring at all times, making the room drip with heat and smoke. We passed the doors without knocking, and I brushed a hand against Patroclus’s chest to stop him.  _ “Wait here,”  _ I whispered to him. He nodded, his breath brushing my cheek.

I walked up to my father’s throne as I have many times before, kneeling at his feet. Phoinix stood next to my father, but his presence did not add pressure on my back. On the contrary, it lifted me. He was every bit a father of me as my real father was.

“Father, I come to ask for your pardon,” I said, training my eyes on the space of carpet in front of my foot.

“Oh?” I heard from above me. “Speak then.”

“I have taken Patroclus from his drills.” My heart pounded.  _ This is not a lie,  _ I reminded myself, but guilt raged through the veins of my wrists anyways.  _ Not a lie, not a lie, not a lie. _

“Who?”

“Menoitiades.” Menoitus’s son. I was surprised that he did not recognize Patroclus by name.

“Ah.” There was a stiff moment of quiet, then my father’s voice sounded again: “Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I know how to discuss with kings. You must always agree before you present your words. “But it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a  _ therapon.”  _ I knew the weight of my words: a  _ therapon _ was a lifelong mate, a brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were a prince’s honor guard; in peace, his closest advisors. It was a place of highest esteem. It was the word I chose because it would keep the golden boy safe. He would keep glowing, for me, at least.

“Come here, Patroclus,” my father commanded. I stole a look at him to see narrowed eyebrows and a set mouth. I heard Patroclus approach and kneel, probably as nerve-stricken as I was. More, probably.

“For many years now, Achilles,” my father said, “I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?”

I was stupid to not expect this question. I thought quickly and angrily. What would please my father? No. What was the truth? I had first thought Patroclus to be blunt and rude. He was those things, but he was honest and commanding too, as much of a prince as I was and maybe more. My father waited.

“He is surprising,” I said, and it was the truth. I could not see Patroclus’s response to this, and I did not dare to look.

“Surprising,” my father echoed.

“Yes.” I did not offer an explanation. Phoinix smiled at me lightly, something private and proud.

My father rubbed his nose. It meant one of three things: he was trying not to laugh, he was deep in thought, or his nose itched. “The boy is in exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation.”

“I do not need him to.” From anyone else, it would have prompted a slap. From me, it was the truth.

My father nodded slowly. He seemed to be searching for ways to hold me back. “Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?”

This answer was easy. I did not care about what the other boys thought. I never had. “I will tell them nothing,” I said firmly. “It is not for them to say what I will do.” I met my father’s eyes, green on green. I studied him for a moment. I would do what I wanted regardless of his decision, he knew, and he smiled at this, the tug of an amused smile barely visible at the corner of his mouth.

“Stand up, both of you,” he directed. I swept to my feet, glancing back at Patroclus. His eyes were focused on my father, and he swayed a bit as if he were sick.

“I pronounce your sentence. Achilles, you will give your apology to Amphidamas, and Patroclus will give his as well.”

I had done something right. Patroclus was saved; I was his savior. A wave of joy crashed throughout my midsection, but I kept my posture still and my fingers still. “Yes, Father.”

“That is all.” He turned back to Phoinix, but I saw that the glimpse of his smile had not yet disappeared.

Patroclus and I hurried out of the chamber and I bid him farewell outside of the door. The easy intimacy and warmth of the audience chamber was gone, both literally and figuratively. Patroclus shivered lightly (I assumed this was from cold). 

“I will see you at dinner,” I said, and turned on my heel to leave, but he called out.

“Where are you going?”

I had not expected him to say anything. I stopped in my tracks, not turning back to face him. I could feel his eyes on my neck. “Drills,” I answered, and took another step forward.

“Alone?”

I remember my thought at that moment exactly:  _ so he does not know.  _ I turned around, looking at him, and a spark shot through my midsection, following my veins through my thighs to my heels. “Yes. No one sees me fight.” It was a sentence I’d said many times before. My mother had drilled it into me.

His face seemed to perk towards me like a cat’s. He was curious. “Why?”

Could I tell him? I would not lie, but I could choose to leave. He looked at me, waiting. His wide brown eyes dragged at my memories. In this moment, I realized I had seen him before. The revelation nearly caused me to take a step back. I knew him. I did not know how. Perhaps we had been friends, in a past life. This thought was intrusive and didn’t sound like my own, but somehow it solidified my decision to confide in him. “My mother has forbidden it. Because of the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” His hands: brown, freckled, familiar. His hair: ruffled, thick, familiar.

“That I will be the best warrior of my generation,” I said simply, watching him to judge his reaction.

He was not expecting this. I saw a mix of emotions flutter across his rough features: disbelief, worry, curiosity. “When—when was the prophecy, um, given?” he asked. I could tell he wanted to ask more.

There was no use in holding anything back now. “When I was born. Just before. Eleithyia came and told it to my mother.” Eleithyia, though being the goddess of childbirth, did not preside over any nativity. But she was at mine, because of my mother. And, I supposed, my mother’s half of me.

He paused, processing. “Is this known?”

I had not expected him to ask so many questions. He was proving to be surprising. “Some know of it, and some do not. But that is why I go alone.” It had chosen to dismiss him, and I watched him, wondering if he would understand.

There was a moment of still between us. Once, I had been swimming in the ocean, and reached the end of the sandy shallows. One moment I was dancing across the land, water splashing around my chest, and the next, the ground disappeared between my feet and I fell under the waves. The color of the water was different, where there was no bottom. It was richer, and more pure, and there was no relief.  _ This is the truth, _ the color said.  _ The only person that can save you here is yourself.  _ This is what Patroclus’s eyes were. There was no sand to save me beneath them. If you dove into his eyes, you would be lost.

“Then I will see you at dinner,” he said.

I nodded and left.

I did my usual drills, but I found it hard to focus. The reality of what had happened was starting to settle in. Patroclus would be my companion for life. My brother. I barely knew him, but I had claimed him anyways. I could feel a hum of disapproval in the salty air around my ears. Of course. My mother. She warned that there would be a boy I would be close with. I knew, then, that she was speaking of Patroclus. I did not know, then, all that he would come to mean to me.

I left my drills early to secure a spot at Patroclus’s table. The boys filled in around me like water filling a hole in a ship: quickly, forcefully, all-encompassing. He walked in, head ducked down, his feet scuffling on the floor as if he was afraid of making noise with his steps. He looked up only to meet my eyes as he sat down, before blushing red and turning away. I busied myself with the conversation (who kissed the serving girl with the blonde hair, who dropped a spear that morning, who won the day’s dice games) and the food (fish thick with lemon and herbs, fresh cheese, woven bread) and did not look at Patroclus. I did not wish him to be uncomfortable.

When dinner was over, I called to him, “Patroclus.”

He looked up so quickly I was afraid I’d frightened him. The chatter of the boys around us had dimmed; I rarely called them out individually and they were interested. Though dinner was over, they hovered around us, hungry for blood.

“Tonight you’re to sleep in my room,” I told him. It was customary, when a  _ therapon  _ was chosen. Apparently he did not know, because his eyes widened in a quiet, sweet sort of shock.

“All right,” he said. I could not read his voice.

“A servant will bring your things,” I said. I could almost hear the thoughts of the other boys, feel the envy deep in their stomachs. Patroclus was still staring at me, eyes wide, hair gently brushing his cheekbones at the sides of his face.

I wanted to leave before the boys started asking questions. I stood up and he stood to follow me without me even asking. I led him to my room, my heart beating strangely at the sound of his soul behind me, oddly nervous. I had never done this before.

My room was beautifully me: simple, yet dignified. A thick pallet lay in the corner, and I pointed to it. “This is for you,” I told Patroclus. My heart would not stop its strange dance.  _ What am I doing? _

“Oh.”

We stood for a moment, staring at some point on the floor. “Are you tired?” I finally asked. It was late, and the room was swathed in golden clouds streaming in from my window. He looked absolutely heavenly. A fallen angel.

“No,” he said.

I nodded, pleased. I did not want my time with him to end just yet. He mirrored me, nodding back. We were being polite. The air was heavy.

I took a breath before asking the question. “Do you want to help me juggle?”

“I don’t know how,” he responded, his hands fidgeting.

It did not answer the question I had asked. “You don’t have to know. I’ll show you.”

He paused before answering, “All right.”

I was pleased with this, it swept up in my chest, something light and primal. “How many can you hold?”

He was smiling, sort of. “I don’t know.”

“Show me your hand,” I told him, and he did. I took it softly in my own, and his breath hitched. I lined up our hands: finger to finger, palm to palm, wrist to wrist. Our foreheads were very close. I did not dare look into his eyes. His hand was rougher than I had imagined, yet smoother than it would make sense for it to be.

“About the same,” I said, before the situation dissolved into awkwardness. “It will be better to start with two, then. Take these.” I passed him two small leather-covered balls, worn with use. He took them obediently.

I stood with two balls in each hand, facing him. “When I say, throw one to me.”

He nodded, but his mind seemed elsewhere. I flicked the balls into motion as I’d done so many times before. The soft swooping noise never got old; the thrill of doing a trick not all could do. “Now,” I said, and he tossed the ball. It swept in a gentle arc straight into the palm of my hand and into the cycle. A few moments passed, then I commanded, “Again.” He did it again. He was not confident in his throws, but they were perfect. Here was the third thing I learned about Patroclus: he had no confidence, but he was perfect.

“You do that well,” I told him.

He looked up at me quickly. Was he surprised? He studied my face, I suppose looking for any sign of insincerity. I only looked back at him, smiling, reassuring him with my eyes until his face softened in acceptance of the compliment.

“Catch,” I whispered, and sent a ball flying into his outstretched hands.

We ended up facing each other on the ground, him sitting on his pallet, and I against my bed. The balls arced through the cycle of my hands and darted out to meet his before joining the circle again. Patroclus smiled, truly. The first time I’d ever seen him really smile. It was something broken and beautiful. Dimples tugged at the corners of his mouth. I had not known he wore a mask before he smiled, but I knew it now. He had been in pain, but he smiled. He was plagued with nightmares, but he smiled. It was something I would always admire about Patroclus: he could go through the Underworld and come out alive. He would never break.

I did not realize how long we’d been juggling in amiable silence until I turned my face towards the window and saw the soft shine of the moon. I caught the balls, unable to hold back a yawn now that I knew it was night. “It’s late,” I said, and watched his eyes follow mine to the moon.

We busied ourselves with the tasks of nighttime: washing our faces, making our beds. I could feel his eyes on me as I let out my hair, running my fingers through it. It just barely brushes my shoulders now. I put out the torch, and only then did I realize quite how tired I was. “Good night,” I told him.

“Good night,” I got in response.

I had never slept as soundly as I did that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! In addition to my writing projects, I also make uquizzes. I’ll try to post the link to a uquiz with an update at least weekly, if y’all want to check them out and put your results in the comments :) here’s this week’s (which of my favorite mlm books should you read?): https://uquiz.com/FWV5lc


	7. The Deer-Boy

Patroclus was tense around me at first. He seemed to think I’d have his head on a platter if he did something I did not like. What he did not know is that there was nothing he did that I disliked. He was tentative around me. He did not seem to realize his permanence in my life.

At first, he only came into my room at night, surprised when I greeted him with a “Hello”, quiet when he returned it. I watched him at night, just to see his mask fade away from his features. He was very young, but he acted very old.

Before, I had kept a steady list of the facts of Patroclus I had learned. Now I found my list growing with every second, and its contents contradicting in sweet growth. He had horrid fits of dreams at night. He did not like to talk about them, but then he did. And then they went away, dispelled by what my foolish young heart believed was my own presence.

It was true: I never left his side. We attended meals together, we studied the lyre together, we swam and we laughed and our bodies grew warm at the thought of the other, or at least mine did. I had never had a friend before.

I found myself rambling on to him in the late hours of the night. I told him all: about my father, about my dislike of the other boys, about the gossip of the haunted halls of the palace. There were few things I kept from him: my mother, and my training. Even those would not last as secrets for very long.

I could not shake the fact that I knew him. It was late one night, a chilled sea-breeze streaming in through my window, when I told him of my theory. We were laying as we often did; me on my bed, him on his pallet, both of us wrapped in blankets of horsehair. He had spoken first.

“I’m cold,” he said. It was not very cold in the room. But perhaps there was a draft on the floor.

“Come here, then,” I urged quietly, blushing warm and rosy at my own boldness.

In the dark, I saw his large eyes blink at me. “What?”

“Come here,” I repeated, pulling my blankets aside to make a space for him. He paused, then slowly stood and made his way over to my bed, sliding in next to me, pulling half of the blankets over himself. He turned to face me, and a giggle at the strangeness of silliness of it all died in my throat. “Hello,” I said instead.

“Hello.”

Even in only the pale light of the moon, I could make out the individual freckles on his cheeks. We were on our sides, facing each other, breath mingling. I laid a hand on his arm, and he jerked.

“Are you alright?” I frowned. Had I upset him somehow?

“What are you doing?” He seemed very awake.

“I’m trying to warm you up,” I said. He could be slow sometimes, but it was not his fault that his upbringing caused him to be so wary.

“Oh,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.” He moved his arm back towards me.

“You don’t need to apologize,” I told him. I laid my hand back on his arm, slowly and gently this time. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” It was very quiet. Then, even quieter: “Thank you.” He would not meet my eyes. I always got the strange feeling he was afraid of me when this happened, when he was truly being shy.

I placed a finger on the softness under his chin and tilted his chin up so he’d meet my eyes. “Okay?” I did not realize I was out of breath until I spoke, and I did not know why.

“Yes,” he said again. He shivered, but he was already feeling warmer.

“I keep getting a feeling we have met before,” I admitted. His eyes lit up. I had never seen him look like that: so open, and so hopeful. He must have felt it, too!

He opened his mouth, but I continued, saying, “I had a thought. What if we both existed before this life? Maybe our souls were something else, before. I know it seems silly, but…” I shrugged as best as one could while lying on his side. “Maybe we are different, you and I. And that is why I know you.”

The spark in his eyes had gone out. I had a guilty feeling that maybe, I should’ve let him speak. He never interrupted me when I spoke up. I found, shamefully, that I could not say the same of myself.

“Perhaps,” was all he said on the topic. Then he said, “I fear it will be too cold to do much outside tomorrow…” and we spoke in little half-mumbles until I could no longer keep my eyes awake.

The next morning, when I awoke, he was on his pallet. He greeted me cheerfully, with a toothy smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and though I could still smell him on my pillow, I convinced myself that it had all been a dream.

After time, he began to open up to me. He told me about his time before becoming my  _ therapon,  _ and eventually of his old life. Talking about his mother always made him misty-eyed.

“It was part of my mother’s dowry,” he told me one morning of my rose-carved lyre before our lyre lesson as I plucked at it. I suddenly understood his initial reaction to it. I passed it to him wordlessly, and he broke, his shoulders shaking with the effort to keep his sobs silent. I sank to the floor and pulled him into me, one hand around his waist, the other holding his head to my chest, until he stopped crying. My tunic was wet with his tears.

“I am glad your father sent it with you,” I said truthfully. He only nodded against my chest, and it lit something on fire within me.

I found myself wanting to share all of myself with him. No thought of mine was too trivial for his ears; no thought of his too lowly for mine. We stayed up late to tell stories to frighten each other; we woke up early to watch the sun rise over the beach, racing each other back to the palace when it rose, full and golden like his cheeks, over the horizon. My father beamed at me; he was happy I’d found a companion. The other boys fell out of my circle.

It was late afternoon when I revealed one of my secrets. We only separated when I saw my mother or I did my drills. I had not known him for long, but something about him called to me. I was ready to share this part of myself with him, and I would, no matter how much my mother wished against it.

He was ready to leave me alone as we usually did when I asked, “Why don’t you come with me?” It was a command and not a request. I could tell by the rise and fall of a swallow in his neck that he understood this. My heart was pounding, at the knowledge that I was defying my mother’s wishes, and at the way he looked up, eyes blown wide in gentle surprise.

“All right,” he said. Polite to the end.

It was hot and quiet and our awkward silence did not help the bead of sweat growing at the back of my neck. I took him through the olive grove, along the twisty path. Leaves danced lightly in the breeze above us and sometimes floated gently to the ground to crunch beneath our feet. It was a narrow path; I could feel Patroclus behind me. I led him to the house where the arms were kept.

He stood in the doorway while I picked up my practice weapons. A spear and a sword. I took deep breaths as I ran my fingers over them, realizing what I was about to do.

I heard his voice behind me. “Should I—“

I shook my head. “I do not fight with others.” I walked over to the packed circle of sand where I practiced. The sand brushed between the toes of my bare feet, the wind kicking up sand around our ankles. It was a beautiful afternoon, the pink sky stretched taut over the frame of the world.

“Never?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“No,” I responded, taking my stance in the center of the circle, my sword sheathed at my waist, my spear in my hand. The smooth metal between my fingers was all too familiar, and it seemed that the spear was whispering to me, telling me what to do.

“Then how do you know that…” he trailed off, and I looked at him, only to find he’d trailed off staring at me, his eyes falling from my eyes down my body.

I turned my face so he would not see me blush. “That the prophecy is true? I guess I don’t.”

The spear hummed in my hand, and I let myself fall into action. It felt slow to me: raise the spear, stab it forward, pull back, pivot. But I knew that I was fast, so fast, that I was the best warrior of my generation. I could hear wind rush in my ears as I swept out with my sword, killing the imaginary men attacking me with one blow. But I was numb. I was not a warrior. I was an artist.

After a minute I stopped and looked at Patroclus. He looked how I imagined he would: jaw open, eyes unblinking with slight terror. There was a moment of quiet, even the leaves of the nearby olive grove gone still.

“Who trained you?” he finally asked.

“My father, a little,” I answered. I hoped this would not ruin his view of me. It had taken him a while to realize my truth, that I was as achingly normal as he. I did not wish for this to change things between us. The worst thing that could happen, I thought, was if Patroclus began to look at me like I was a god.

“No one else?” His tone was cautious. The air was stiff.

“No.”

He stepped forward, something glinting in his eyes. “Fight me.”

This was so unlike what I was expecting that I barked a laugh. It was ridiculous. I did not think lowly of him, but he could not fight me and survive. “No. Of course not.”

“Fight me,” he repeated, stepping even closer.

“I don’t want to,” I told him. Why would he not listen to me? I would only hurt him, and I knew my mother would be angry enough. I did not wish to displease her further.

“I dare you.” He was moving closer. The look in his eyes almost scared me. I did not know this boy.

I fumbled for excuses that would not sound condescending. “You don’t have any weapons.”

“I’ll get them.”

This burned something in me. I was not used to being disobeyed, even by him. I knelt in the sand, laying my weapons down. I looked up at his eyes, and something hot flashed again: anger, embarrassment, I did not know. It felt strange in my stomach, and I said in my most princely tone, “I will not. Do not ask me again.”

Of course this did not stop Patroclus. “I will ask you again. You cannot forbid me,” he said in a confident voice so unlike his own that I trembled slightly. He stepped forward again.

I did not know what to say, so I simply rose, turned my back on him, and starting walking away, back towards the palace.

“Come back,” he called. I kept walking. What was happening?

“Come back,” he urged again. “Are you afraid?” he taunted.

This tore a laugh out of my throat. I was not afraid of him. Was I afraid of what I might do to him, if we fought? Perhaps. Mostly, I felt something thick like anger and sloshy like sadness, in a pit just below my lungs. “No, I am not afraid.” As soon as I said it, it became the truth.

“You should be.”

I stopped in my tracks. White flickered at the sides of my vision. The air was heavy and thick, suffocating the silence between us. I was not afraid of him. But I got a sinking feeling that he was something to be feared.

I did not get to think about it any further before something warm, forceful, and Patroclus-sized crashed into my back, sending me stumbling to the ground. I felt his arms fling around my stomach and bring me down with him. I lost my breath.

I did not know why he had done this, only that he had started a fight and I would finish it. 

I snatch his wrists in each of my hands, and feel his knee thump into my stomach as he cries, “Let me go!”

“No.” I twist him beneath me, straddling his hips, pinning him to the ground, my knees in his belly. He pants, frowning.

“I have never seen anyone fight the way you do,” he says, his eyes crinkled from the sun and frustration, staring into mine. I let myself sink into them for a moment before responding.

“You have not seen much,” I counter.

His frown deepens, his dimples popping out. His eyebrows are furrowed, and I want to smooth the space between them with my thumb. I’ve never seen him with this much emotion. I like it.

“You know what I mean,” he spits.

“Maybe,” I say. “What do you mean?”

He jerks his wrists again, and I let go, falling off of him. We sit, facing each other, on the edge of the sand circle.

“I mean—“ He starts, stumbling. “There is no one like you,” he finishes.

This is true. There is no one like me. And there is no one like my mother. And there is no one like him. And I think that is quite beautiful. He stares at me, his anger softened, his eyes wide as always, searching my face for something, and it hits me.

Those eyes. Pooling with sunlight. Brown and rich like honey in the night. His face, his frame, sweet and skittish. The deer-boy. From the races. When I was five. I could’ve laughed with relief. I want to lean into him, stare into his eyes, and whisper,  _ Do you remember me? I remember you.  _ Our lives were not entangled in a past existence. Our lives were entangled  _ now. _

_ There is no one like you,  _ he had said. “So?” I ask.

He looked at me, not smiling, but not frowning either. It all made sense now, and I could feel my face fall into a real smile. I had wondered over the deer-boy for so many years. And here he was. To think, the boy from the races sat in front of me now. To think, he was my best friend. My smile could’ve split my face, and I would not have minded.

I had found him. My golden boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I hope y’all liked this chapter, I’m pretty pleased with it :). As always, thanks for all the support!


	8. The First Summer

However close we were before, we became even closer after that. Patroclus shocked me every day, not because he was changing, but because I was noticing changes in myself. I had never minded being alone, before. But now I wondered how I survived without him by my side.

My father was happy; I knew he had always wanted another child.  _ Skops,  _ he called Patroclus. It fit him, not only because of his eyes, but because of his quietly inquisitive nature, his fighting instincts repressed.

Patroclus taught me how to skip stones, our first summer as friends. I remember standing with him at the edge of the tide, water splashing around our ankles as we stood on the beach.

“I used to do this with my mother,” he tells me as he flings a stone into the ocean. It flicks across the waves once, twice, three times, before sinking softly under the surf.

“Was she as talented at it as you are?” I ask, chasing the blush in his cheeks that bloomed whenever I complimented him. It comes, rising up his face as he ducks his head, trying to fight a smile. It brings a wave of giddiness up my chest.

“She did not do it,” he says solemnly. “She only watched me. She liked it. I think.”

“She sounds wonderful,” I tell him, because she does, and I know he needs to hear it.

_ “Thank you,”  _ he whispers. The only noise is the crashing of waves, then: “Oh, you’re holding it wrong. Let me help you.” He snakes an arm around my waist and reaches out to fix the posture of my arm. My nerves light on fire everywhere he touches me. I can feel his breath brush against the back of my neck. “Okay, now throw it,” he directs.

I fling the rock into the waves. One, two, three, four, five skips before it falls beneath the water. “Yes!”

He laughs softly behind me. “Good job.” He wraps his other arm around me, hugging my back to his chest. “You’re even better than I am.”

“I’m just lucky,” I tell him.

His chin rests on my shoulder. “You always are.”

I had never had a companion before, so I assumed any friendship was like this: all-consuming, exhilarating, heavenly. My mind was a steady stream of  _ Patroclus.  _ I noticed the little things about him: the way he slurred my name in the morning while he was sleepy, the way his eyes crinkled when he became frustrated, the tiny slit between his front teeth. Every time he touched me, my heart leapt. Every time he spoke my name, my stomach twisted. I was utterly absorbed with him.

Summer rolled in and my fascination with Patroclus deepened. Part of this was due to him finally confiding in me about the boy he had killed. We had scrambled up the oak tree in the courtyard, pulling ourselves up on the branches. Our conversation had been boisterous and of nothing, but now, hidden underneath the shell of leaves, it fell intimate and quiet.

He explained all: the dice, the push, the blood. I listened silently, studying the knuckles in his hands (which still did not match the rest of him). He finished, sighing as if releasing some huge burden. I supposed he had. But one thing stood out to me from his story.

“Why did you not say that you were defending yourself?” I asked. If I had claimed it was in defense, I would have been pardoned. Patroclus had not shared his side with his father at all.

“I don’t know,” he responded, gazing up at the sunlight that streamed through the leaves. He straddled a branch, his back to the trunk. I was perched on a branch next to his.

“Or you could have lied.” I found my head filling with ways to excuse the crime. “Said you found him already dead.”

He turned to stare at me then. His eyes were very far away. His lips moved slightly, sketching words I would never hear. “You would not have lied,” he said finally.

He was right, of course. “No.”

He kicked his feet through the sticky air. “What would you have done?”

I thought about it, but I just couldn’t imagine it. A boy forcing something from my hand… it was unthinkable. My fingers tapped across my branch. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine it. The way the boy spoke to you.” I shrugged. Half an apology. “No one has ever tried to take something from me.”

“Never?” Patroclus asked.

‘Never,” I confirmed. We looked at each other for a moment. “I don’t know,” I repeated. “I think I would be angry.” I suddenly felt embarrassment, and closed my eyes, leaning back against a branch. We did not speak of the dead boy again.

When Patroclus has a question, he will not cease to ask it until he has reached an answer that satisfies his curiosity for the perceived truth. I love this about him. This deep quirk pleasures me to the point of insanity until I am overcome with some sort of longing for him.

I loved Patroclus in the summer. Everything about him seemed to relax and be free. He let himself make noise, let his soul fill out his body, from the tips of his toes to the peak of his skull, instead of keeping it hidden and locked away from me behind his lung.

There came an afternoon where these two of my secret enjoyments of Patroclus interlocked. It was the beginning of late summer, the heat beginning to fade ever so slightly, while the sun still smiled at us, offering rays that bounced off the waves and circled our bodies.

We had just finished swimming, our eyes tight with sun, our hair caked with salt, our bodies loose, aching, but so gloriously alive. We were laying where grass met sand, sprawled on our backs, letting the sun wash over us.

“When I first came here, I thought we never saw you because you were busy doing… princely duties,” Patroclus told me. Nostalgia was a drink we liked to lap every drop from, on these days of summer breezes.

It was not necessarily a funny statement, but I laughed all the same: the joy of doing what I wished, and doing it with him, was the greatest I could imagine. “Princely duties! Like what?”

Patroclus had started to grin, a dimple tugging at the edge of his mouth. I reached out and poked my finger in it, and he laughed for real, playfully shoving me away, becoming looser and achier and more gloriously alive still. “Planning wars, being tutored, training, fighting. To think, you were just out here playing to your heart’s content every day.”

This made me smile. “I am living my life how I wish to. Is that not princely?”

“I suppose.” He sighed, and I turned on my side to better face him, my eyes slipping from his brown deer-eyes to the angle of his chin, and the gentle rise and fall of his collarbone.

“Did you do this before you swore me to you?” he asked, turning his head towards me. It was a question he’d asked before, and I had always answered simply. Patroclus did not speak without meaning, and I knew he wanted more.

“I used to not,” I told him. “My father liked me to attend councils. But I told him I would rather learn my music and go as I please.”

“Were you lonely?”

I paused, considering. I shook my head. “I do not think so. I was alone.”

“What was it like, before me?” Patroclus asked, turning his body to face mine. If I moved closer to him, our bodies would line up perfectly: nose to nose, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee. But I did not dare, so we matched from afar.

His eyes were turned towards the ground, and I realized: he was afraid of what I might answer. I almost laughed at the thought; I would not have traded him for all the gold in the world. He was my first and last friend.

“Before you…” I paused not because I was rethinking what I planned to say, but only to silently urge him to turn his bottomless eyes to mine. I would answer him, because he asked. I have never been embarrassed by the truth. The truth of him is etched into my very bones.

That afternoon, he was every bit the deer-boy as when I first saw him. “Before you, there was nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter today, but a chapter nonetheless!


	9. The Promise, Pt. 1

I had given away all my secrets but one. I had even told him that I remembered him from the races. It had happened late one night. We were sitting close, facing each other on my bed, our legs crossed. I juggled balls as Patroclus tossed them to me.

“Do you remember,” I started, “that night when you were cold, and I told you of my theory? That we were friends in a past existence.”

He startled as if he’d been caught in some unspeakable act. “Yes?” It came out like he was asking a question. Like he felt sure he was correct, but still needed confirmation.

“It was nonsense,” I smiled. “I know you because I saw you at my father’s races. When I was five. You were, too, you must have been. Do you remember?”

The balls fell out of his hands and mine dropped of their own accord. I could not continue without him. “You saw me?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“But you forgot?”

I felt foolish. “I had not gotten a good look at your face. I only realized when you tried to fight me.”

He shook his head. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “You  _ remembered  _ me.”

“Of course.” Why would I not have? “Did you… did you not remember me?”

“Achilles,” he said, leaning forwards gently, our heads just a head apart. It was an answer.

My hand was very close to his knee. If I extended my fingers, I’d brush his skin.

I did.

“It’s late,” he blurted, flushing red. “We must sleep. Your father would be upset.”

I did not think my father would care. But Patroclus was too polite to reject me outright.

Of course, my mother was watching. She watched me, always. It would not be long until she confronted me about Patroclus. She always hated the possibility of me so much as fraternizing with the other boys, much less choosing a  _ therapon. _

Dawn wakes me. It is the second spring of Patroclus and I’s friendship. I take a moment to soak in the view of Patroclus—golden face, knobby hands, curly hair—before walking to the beach to meet my mother. (God, he was always so beautiful in sleep).

She is expecting me, of course. She stands in the water as always, stark against the pale light of the moon, her hair a scratch of darkness in the stormy-gray sea and sand.

“Achilles.”

“Mother. Are you well?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “You have found the boy.” It is an accusation.

“Yes,” I say. “And what of it?” It occurs to me that I am not supposed to know of a certain boy, but it is too late to feign ignorance.

Either she does not note this, or she knows I heard her conversation all those years ago. Most likely the latter.

“He is not good for you.” Her eyes are wild, the edges of her lips as red as blood and cracked like crumbled stone.

“He is my friend.” My mother is harsh, I know. But I will not stand for her attacking Patroclus.

“Is he?”

I am shocked. “Of course!”

She rolls her eyes at me. It stings like something real has reached out and lacerated my heart. “Do not be stupid.”

I am confused for a moment, then— _ oh.  _ She is not implying he is anything less than a friend. She is implying he is  _ more. _

“Patroclus is—he is not—“ I do not know why I am stumbling over my words. It is so unfair. So unfair of her, to make me like this, make me anything less than a perfect prince. So unfair to take the only person besides her or my mother whom I truly love, and slash at my memories of him. Hot, angry tears sting the corners of my eyes.  _ No, no, no— _

“I forbid it,” she growls. “You will not pursue him. He will keep you from your destiny.”

“My destiny is to be the greatest warrior in the world! I can do that with him.” My fists clench at my sides to try to keep myself from shivering. It is never this cold on the beach in spring.

Her laugh never sounds like a laugh. It always makes me want to reach up a hand to my face and brush it, just to make sure sharp pieces of her have not flown out and punctured my skin. “Your destiny, Achilles, is to be a god! Do you not understand? Have the mortals made you simple?”

Tears stream down my face in violent spurts now. “Stop! Just stop!”

“Do you not  _ understand?”  _ she snarls again. “I have had enough. Come.” And then she is upon me, snatching at my arms, trying to drag me under the water with her.

_ “No!”  _ I try to shout, but a sob cracks it into a million tiny pieces of fear. “No, please don’t! Mama, stop!”

I feel nails scratch into my skin, spraying blood into the surf like I am a slow fish that’s just been speared. My feet start to slip from under me. Water is in my nose, and in my ears, and please, please just stop but she doesn’t listen doesn’t listen doesn’t listen—

_ “Please,”  _ I cry. “I’ll do  _ anything.” _

She ceases to drag me, but not to hold me. My wet hair is in my eyes, but I cannot swipe it away, her grip is too tight—

“I will let you go,” she says in a low and terrifyingly human-sounding voice, “if you promise me one thing.”

“Of course, Mama, please just—“

She cuts me off. “If that boy comes to mean anything more to you, you will leave. If he pursues you, you will leave. Do not get any stupid ideas. I see all you do, there. Am I clear?”

_ Yes.  _ My lungs scream. I cannot choke the word out.

Suddenly, there is a fistful of my hair being pulled, a patchwork square of agony threatening to tear my scalp. “He will visit me tomorrow night. Am I  _ clear?” _

“Y-yes,” I gasp.

“Promise me.” Her voice is like knives at my jaw. I have never been so afraid of anything, especially her. She is my  _ mother. _ She says she loves me, every time I visit.

“I promise,” I breathe, and then she is gone. There is no more blood in the water.

I am alone and unharmed, curled into a ball at the edge of the endless ocean, sobbing so hard I cannot breathe.

This was the second of the times I nearly went with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and there’s a lot more where that came from.
> 
> another short chapter, but i felt this one needed to stand alone, no? ;)


	10. To Be a God

Thoughts from my mother drifted through my head as I blinked awake, a sickly, godly residue that happened after our meetings sometimes.  _ Dead soon. Keep secret. Love you.  _ At first I panicked, thinking she meant I would die soon, but she would have warned me. I dug my fingers into the sand and rocks, trying to relieve my pounding heartbeat. I would not die, not yet. That meant… 

My stomach turned at the thoughts of what she might say to Patroclus as I walked slowly back to our room. I allowed myself a glimpse of hope that she might merely want to meet him, but shrugged away the thought. He was mortal. She would not accept him. The only mortal I had ever seen her interact with was my father, and that never went over well.

As I expected, he was awake when I entered, rubbing the last of sleep out of his eyes. I found myself suddenly embarrassed, and I turned my face away from him, hoping to hide my red, aching eyes.

“Is she well?” he asked, stretching.

“She is well.” The words felt stale and sick in my mouth. “She wants to meet you.”

I could hear him still behind me. It was not the answer he was expecting. “Do you think I should?” he asked.

I felt the sting of my mother’s hands ripping at my scalp. A stone turned over and over in my fingers. I had not realized that I brought it back from the beach. “There is no harm in it.”  _ Do you understand?  _ “Tomorrow night, she said.”  _ Am I clear? _

“Tomorrow?” His voice trembled slightly. I felt like a monster. My mother loved me, yet she had been so cruel. And here was Patroclus, a mortal boy close to me, one she surely hated, and I was sending him to her.

It almost felt like I was marching him along to his own grave.

I nodded. My scalp still ached, and my arms were sore, though the scratches and cuts were gone. I wanted to curl in a blanket and never get up. I had to gulp tears back down my throat, grateful my back was to him.

“Should I—should I bring a gift?” It made my heart scream, his stupid politeness in everything. I wanted to shake him by the shoulders until he was mean to me. He was so kind all the time. It made him seem fake. “Honeyed wine?” he suggested when I did not respond.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak without crying. I took a deep breath and managed to get out, “She doesn’t like it.”

I wasn’t alone until Patroclus finally left the next night. I did not want to scare him, and I found myself holding my breath until he was gone. As soon as he was out the door, I let myself collapse into bed and let slow, belated tears stream across my cheekbones as I stared at the ceiling. I had been so shaken up by the whole event that I had not truly considered my mother’s implication: that Patroclus and I were closer than friends.

It was stupid, I told myself. She was only trying to get under my skin. It made my skin feel as if a thousand tiny bugs were stepping over me to think about my mother watching us. I thought of her warning: that I would be forced to leave if anything happened between us. It did not matter, because nothing would ever happen. I would make sure of it.

My conversation with Patroclus ran over and over again in my head:

_ How will I greet her? he had asked. _

_ Just stand in the waves. She will come. _

_ Should I speak to her? _

_ No, you do not need to speak. She will know. _

I suddenly became sick, and had to run over to the window, gagging onto the outside ground. I can hear the waves faintly crashing as usual, but the sound is only worrying, not soothing like it usually is.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because I awoke a little while later. My eyes drifted over to Patroclus’s pallet out of habit, and I started at the sight of it empty.  _ He should have been back now, _ I thought.

Of course. My mother must have hurt him. I swing my legs out of bed and clamber out of the window into the light of the pearly moon. I go to the beach first, to see if she left him shredded upon the sands, but he is not there. Footprints lead up to and away from the waves, and I hurriedly follow them, my heart thumping in my chest like a drum.

The footprints lead me to the olive grove, where the golden boy is curled up at the base of a tree, sniffling and half asleep.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask to snag his attention, and lure the details of his visit with my mother out of him.

He does not move or startle like I expected him to. “Nothing,” he says plaintively.

This, of course, is a lie. One does not walk away from my mother empty-headed. I settle down beside him on the dusty ground, nudging his knee with mine. My mother’s message still lurks in the back of my mind:  _ Dead soon.  _ “Did she tell you that you would die soon?” I guess. 

He is surprised at this; his head swivels to meet my eyes. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. It is not his fault the way she is how she is. I’m struck with a sudden, strong feeling: I do not ever want him to die. Everything was gray in the night. Wind rattled through the crepuscular grove.

“She wants you to be a god,” he confesses, looking at his own palms. I resist the urge to reach out and twine my fingers through his. Clearly this thought of my mother’s disturbs him, but I am unsure of how to comfort him.

“I know,” I say, embarrassed, though I’m unsure why. To be a god… it does not seem impossible, for me.

He stammers, “Do you want to be—“ He pauses, sucking in a breath. He turns his eyes to mine. ‘Do you want to be a god?”

He looks almost inhuman in the night, eyes so wide and dark he looks more bird than human. I half expect him to grow wings and fly off over the ocean. I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knee, caught up in him, before I realize he is waiting for me to answer.

“I don’t know,” I say eventually. To be a god. “I don’t know what it means, or how it happens.” I look down, unable to hold his intense stare. “I don’t want to leave here.” What I mean is, I don’t want to leave  _ him.  _ “When would it happen anyway? Soon?” My mother was so demanding of me, yet told me nothing. I heard my voice rise in frustration as I rambled on, “And is there really a place like that? Olympus? She doesn’t even know how she will do it. She pretends she knows. She thinks if I become famous enough…” My hands are trembling now, so I clasp them tighter to my knees.

“Then the gods will take you voluntarily,” he finishes. I nod. But I had not yet answered his question.

_ “Achilles.”  _ His stupid  _ persistence.  _ It would get him killed one day.

I look up at him.

“Do you want to be a god?” he repeats.

The truth spills out from my mouth before I can even think about it. “Not yet.”

His head falls forward at the chin. Relief?

I cup my hand around my chin, thinking. I do not want to be a god, yet. But I still want to… to be the best, I suppose. “I’d like to be a hero, though,” I tell him. “I think I could do it. If the prophecy is true. If there’s a war.” So many  _ if’s _ , it seemed unlikely I would ever have to worry about those things. “My mother says I am better even than Heracles was.” It is simply a fact, but it stiffens in my mouth as I tell him. He does not respond.

I am lost in thought for a moment. How would one even become a god? Would the other gods decide, and if they did, how? Or if you were simply too perfect… could they refuse you?

I turn to him, an idea springing into my mind. “Would you want to be a god?”

He laughs, something loud and joyous and too perfect, and it infects me, too, until we’re both giggling amongst the dark trees, all thoughts of my mother and gods diminished.

“I do not think that is likely,” he manages over his snorts. And then he stands, reaching down for me.

I take his hand, pulling myself up. I quirk an eyebrow mischievously. “There were figs in the kitchen. I saw them.”

His smile gleams at me. “I bet I can eat more than you.”

“Race you!” I shout, and we’re off, running to the palace, our laughter echoing throughout the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another uquiz for you guys: https://uquiz.com/PqX4hA
> 
> As always, thanks for the feedback and support!


	11. The Second Summer

Summer brought about many things that year. I turned thirteen, then Patroclus did. I shot up, my limbs growing faster and leaner and sharper. Patroclus grew, too, but he seemed awkward in his newfound height, stumbling around like a baby deer. His jawline had begun to sharpen, his collarbone becoming starkly defined through his chest. A few things did not change: his hair did not yet lie flat behind his ear, his hands refused to match, and we were as close as ever.

At thirteen, my father began to nag me about girls around the palace. “You don’t want to be clumsy on your wedding night,” he laughed. “The other boys have more experience than you, the prince!” It only made me sick. I did not much care, or pay attention to, the actions of my father’s foster boys.

Patroclus did not bed any girls, either. This surprised me, slightly. He could, if he wanted to, he was twice as handsome as any of the foster boys and three times as kind. Summer did him good again, that year. His hair kept trying to grow out, but he kept it stubbornly shorn at his chin.

Of all things, we were swimming in the sea when everything changed. It should not have been anything out of the ordinary. We had ran to the beach as we had so many times before, stripping out of our tunics and splashing into the waves. It was clear, not a cloud in the sky, and the air was stiflingly hot. The cool water was a relief, and we raced to our rock, grateful to be out of the heat, not a worry in the world.

Patroclus clings to the edge of the rock, shaking wet hair out of his eyes, laughing loud and bright. His eyes flash with the sun, boring holes into mine with their sheer joy. “Race you back?” he asks, cocking his head playfully, dimples threatening to rip his smile apart at the seams.

I open my mouth to respond, and nothing comes out. He reaches out to ruffle my hair, and the second his hand brushes my head, a million fires explode in my heart.

“Come on. What, are you tired already?” he teases. My heart is thudding in my chest, my stomach spinning as if it’s trying to sprint through a storm.  _ No.  _ This is very, very bad. I remember my mother’s warning, and suddenly feel as if I am being watched.

Patroclus frowns now. How have I never noticed how a mole dots the corner of his lip? Has it always melted my knees like this? “Achilles. Are you okay?” He reaches out a hand, and I bat it away.

“I’m fine!” I yelp. “Yes, let’s race.”

He looks at me, making me blush with just a look, and then shrugs and throws himself back through the water. It is summer, and it is the only time he does not allow himself to worry. I shake away the thoughts and try to steady my heart.  _ It’s only Patroclus. _

We race.

I do not forget my mother’s commands, the promise I made. I know nothing good can come of this. I force my feelings down, resigning myself to only admire him at night, when his face softly relaxes and his dark hair spills over his pillow. I think of the night I invited him into my bed and shudder. I do not think I could do that now. Not without breaking my promise.

It is not as if I can avoid him, and I do not want to. He is my best friend, first. I was raised a prince, trained in poise and policy. I know how to keep a cool face and a steady voice. But this does not keep Patroclus’s rough morning voice from making me daydream a thousand nights with him.

A month passed with my newfound realization, and it became easier and easier to live with. I had worried this would ruin our friendship. But I learned, quickly, that nothing would ever do that, not even this. We were one. The household staff ran our names together,  _ AchillesandPatroclus.  _ My father called us ‘his boys’. We were inseparable. We could not be ruined.

I began to treasure every touch, every smile, every joke between us. It was as much as I would ever get, I told myself at thirteen. It was a silly infatuation. It would pass. I thought I did, but I did not know much at thirteen. I stopped worrying about it, and it stopped worrying me.

My father, whom of course I could not confide in, still urged me to take a serving girl. One night he offered the one he deems prettiest. I had to fight to keep my voice neutral as I’d responded,  _ No, thank you, I am tired tonight.  _ The interaction sat heavy in my stomach and I could not meet Patroclus’s eyes.

Times with my father did not always leave a sticky, sour taste in my mouth. He told us stories, and invited us to councils where he forgot about us and we could speak quietly and giggle about the other kings, our knees pressed together under the table.

One night, he told us of Heracles. Nothing we have not heard before, but he could make it sound thrilling anyways. I was sitting in a chair next to Patroclus. He noticed me looking at him, and shook his head, like  _ what? _ I jabbed a finger into his stomach, and he stifled a laugh, shoving at my shoulder. As he moved, his leg knocked into mine, and he kept it there. My heart skipped a bit as I pushed my leg against his, and he knocked it again, his thumb barely brushing my knee.

A few days later, I woke Patroclus by leaping onto his bed and pressing my nose to his. He blinked awake, confused. “Good morning,” I smiled, before jumping off again. He thought I was only being silly. But it is the memory of the heat of his chest beneath mine, his breath on my lips, and the sight of the crook of his neck that kept me sane.

That night, my father told us the story of Meleager. I was sprawled out on the floor, an arm beneath my head to keep my head from the stone. My fingers plucked at imaginary lyre strings as he speaks, my mind whirling at how to turn my father’s words into song. It was a fleeting project, one I toiled over in the moment, but it would never make it to an instrument. Patroclus sat in a chair, as always, nearby.

My father’s voice was as steady and familiar as waves crashing onto a beach. “Meleager was the finest warrior of his day, but also the proudest. He expected the best of everything, and because the people loved him, he received it.”

My mind struck a perfect chord for the line.

“But one day,” my father continued, “the king of Calydon said, ‘Why must we give so much to Meleager? There are other worthy men in Calydon.’”

I stretched, wondering if the melody would sound better on flute than lyre.

“Meleager heard the words of the king and was enraged. He said, ‘I will not fight for you any longer.’ And he went back to his house and sought comfort in the arms of his wife.”

I flicked my gaze to Patroclus’s feet, rubbed smooth from time spent tromping around in the sand, brown and sun-kissed. I reached out and tugged at his foot, staring up at him, grinning.

My father was oblivious. “Calydon had fierce enemies, and when they heard that Meleager would no longer fight for Calydon—“

Flutters bloomed in my chest as Patroclus pushed his foot towards me provokingly, something like a smirk on his face. I wrapped my fingers, one by one, around his ankle.

“They attacked.” My father hummed with this, as if in disapproval, or maybe just 

regret he held for someone else. “And the city of Calydon suffered terrible losses.”

I yanked Patroclus’s ankle as hard as I could, and he slid half out of the chair, his arms clinging to the chair to keep himself off of the floor. I grinned at him again.

“So the people went to Meleager, to beg him for his help. And—Achilles, are you listening?”

“Yes, father,” I responded cheekily, winking at Patroclus, who didn’t see it.

“You are not,” my father tutted. “You are tormenting our poor Skops.”

Patroclus pouted, but he looked rather amused as he pulled himself back into his chair.

My father sighed. “It is just as well, perhaps. I am getting tired. We will finish this story another evening.”

Patroclus offered me a hand to stand up, and I took it. We rose and bid good night. I had just turned away from my father when he said, “Achilles, you might look for the light-haired girl, from the kitchen. She has been haunting doorways for you, I hear.”

Every joint in my body stiffens. My heart shrinks in the awkward silence. I do my best to unclench my jaw and say, “Perhaps, Father. I am tired tonight.” It is a lie, and I do not like it. But I will not betray my own heart.

My father just chuckles. He knows not how his words make me feel. Waving us away, he teases, “I’m sure she could wake you up.”

My face burns red as I storm back to our room, not even waiting for Patroclus. He moves quicker to keep up with me. It is silent as we wash our faces and prepare our beds. I wish it to remain that way. I am filled with frustration that my own father is so clueless, and that I cannot have what I want. I have never been denied something I wanted before.

Patroclus speaks suddenly. “That girl—do you like her?”

I almost laugh as I turn to him. If only he knew. I keep my voice steady as I respond, “Why? Do you?” Deflection and avoidance is my best option.

“No, no.” His cheeks darken with embarrassment. “That is not what I meant. I mean do you want—“

I can not take it any longer. I run over to him, pushing him back onto his pallet, falling on top of him. His large eyes are blown even wider with surprise, his breathing heavy, his lips parted.

“I’m sick of talking about her,” I whisper, but I don’t even know if Patroclus is listening. He is only staring at my mouth. The freckles spattered across his face make tiny constellations across his skin, like stars in the sun. His eyelashes flutter in the space of a breath, and he is all I can smell: olives and boy sweat and beauty. One movement is all it would take.

But I made a promise, and I am an honest man. I peel myself away from him, pouring a last cup of water to drink and tucking myself into bed.

I want to tell him everything. But “Good night” is all I say.

We never did finish listening to the story of Meleager. But we found the ending on our own, eventually, in the worst way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has definitely been the hardest chapter to write so far. (Because Achilles had these things, y’know, called... emotions). I might edit it a little bit soon. I’ll let y’all know if I do.
> 
> Also—1000 hits?? What?? I never thought anyone would read this, so it’s so crazy to me. Thank you all for your amazing feedback and support; it means the world to me <3


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